The Quiet Girl

by S. F. Kosa

  So after leaving a message for Detective Correia about how she needs to check out Stefan Silva, I talk to a producer from the NBC station. She says they’ll come out to Beech Forest tomorrow morning, early. And after a rough couple hours of sleep, I meet the news team in the muggy parking lot. True to their word, the police are already there, including the dive team. Apparently, they’re using sonar and have a team of three sweeping the pond. Their flippers and heads break the surface every once in a while, and other groups search the woods again.

  A mobile forensics unit comes and combs through the Prius. Detective Correia catches my eye and heads in my direction. No attitude, no friendliness. She’s simply doing her job. Keeping her promises. Possibly keeping an eye on me. She tells me that she’s gotten the search warrant for Mina’s phone and expects to have some information no later than tomorrow. And then: “I got your message. Stefan Silva.”

  “Yeah. He lives in Harwich. I found a list in one of Mina’s notepads, and his name is on it.”

  Detective Correia arches one black eyebrow. “A list?”

  “It was a grocery list, eggs and English muffins and stuff, but there were two names on it. One was her therapist. And the other was this Stefan guy.”

  “Someone you know?”

  I shake my head.

  “But you know he lives in Harwich.”

  I put my hands up. Guilty. “I looked him up.”

  “So she had a list with this guy’s name on it. A guy you don’t know. And you looked him up. Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “She added his name to the list at some point between Sunday and Tuesday.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Facebook post. There’s a picture of the notepad on Sunday morning with no names. On Wednesday, I found the notepad in the cottage, names added. Last time the neighbors saw her was Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Fancy yourself a detective, Mr. Zarabian?”

  “I fancy myself a husband who’s worried sick.”

  Correia nods. “I checked with the neighbors. The couple across the street—the one guy, pink hair? He said he told you it might have been Tuesday, but he remembered that he was heading out to a boot camp class at Mussel Beach, which is a class that only happens on Monday. So he thinks it’s Monday.”

  He thinks it’s Monday. What she means is that’s the last time anyone saw my wife. Eight fucking days ago. I shake my head. “You’re going to check out this Stefan guy? What if he has her? He’s got a criminal record.”

  I can’t tell if Correia thinks I’m a jealous, murderous husband, a sane, concerned spouse, or something in between. This woman is inscrutable. She types a note into her phone and tucks the device into her pocket. “I’ll give him a call. Let me know if you come upon anything else.” Her dark eyes lock onto mine. “Like her passwords and such.”

  I don’t blink. “Of course.”

  “I’m following every lead, Mr. Zarabian.” Her voice is dead level. “You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Keep it up, please.”

  With a tight nod, Correia heads back to the scrum of law enforcement at the pond’s edge. I give a brief on-camera statement about how I believe Mina’s out there somewhere, how I don’t believe she’s hurt herself. I say that I appreciate the dedicated work of the searchers and the police, but I hope they’ll continue to investigate every possible lead, including any forensic evidence in her car and all her last-known contacts.

  It occurs to me, as the camera lens glints and the lights shine down on me, that I sound robotic. Like I’m talking about a business deal. Next steps. Points of negotiation. Contract terms. I have the distant thought that people will expect me to cry and be emotional. But it all feels like it’s happening outside me, like I’m watching along with everyone else. It reminds me of my dad’s funeral, when I sat there numb while my mom sobbed against my chest. And the moment Caitlin announced she wanted a divorce. And the morning Mina walked out the door, and I let her.

  That day, I failed her. Today, I have no time to indulge in a breakdown. She needs me.

  It’s on the news at noon, and that’s when I start to get calls. The CBS station. ABC, too. Also, the one that used to call itself FOX but dropped the label because this is Massachusetts and it was killing their ratings. They’re skeptical about this case being anything other than a suicide—I can tell. But they’re interested because Mina’s a reasonably well-known author, and hell, if that’s what they need to latch onto, fine with me.

  I’m so crushed with calls and interviews that I forget all about going over to the Richardses’. Rose shows up early Tuesday afternoon, chauffeured by Scott and dressed in her Sunday best, looking unsurprised at the presence of several news crews in addition to the police. My first thought is that she saw it all on television and decided to get out here for her close-up. But instead of basking in the spotlight, she gives a brief statement about wanting her daughter to come home safely, hands a few plates of treats to Correia, and then retreats back to her car, where Scott is waiting. By the time I extricate myself from yet another interview, they’re gone. I suspect I’ve got some apologizing to do.

  But only after I blow this thing up as big as it needs to be.

  Unexpectedly, my mom helps. After getting yet another text about how Mina hasn’t gotten back to her, I call her late Tuesday night to fill her in. Without giving me a heads-up, she hangs up and goes straight to her second home—Facebook—and makes an emotional post about her talented, beautiful, famous daughter-in-law. It earns her a viral moment. When I start getting calls on Wednesday morning from people at the Boston Globe, the New York Times, and the Washington Post, as well as CNN, the Daily Beast, BuzzFeed, and several other online sites, they all say they got my number from my mom.

  It takes up all my time. All my energy. It keeps me from thinking about what I’m going to do if they find my wife in that pond. It keeps me from wondering if she really left me on purpose, because even if she did, even if she ran off to fuck this Stefan guy’s brains out, I don’t think she would have left everything—wallet, keys, car—behind. She’s in trouble. She needs me. That’s what I say over and over. I won’t just accept suicide as an explanation and give up.

  At some point during the afternoon, Detective Correia comes over to tell me that she’s talked to Stefan Silva, and he has a solid alibi for Monday night through Tuesday morning, one that she’s already checked out. Everything in her manner tells me she thinks that lead is dead. I question the timing—how is she so sure? I mention the guy’s criminal record again—suspicion of assault. She tells me she’ll let me know if she has any other pertinent information and reminds me to keep her informed as well.

  She’s holding me at arm’s length. I don’t know what that means.

  By six, the reporters look bored, the cops look grim, my phone is almost dead, and I’m about to drop. Despite the news about Stefan, I feel a certain savage happiness that they’ve found absolutely no trace of Mina in the water or the park after three days of searching. But my hope that it will energize the detective to keep digging for other explanations dies when I overhear one officer tell another that it would have been easy for Mina to walk up the trail to the beach at Race Point and go into the water there. Into the ocean, where she’ll never be found, where the current will carry her body for miles and where white sharks are increasingly common. So basically, they’ve found a way to write this off even if they don’t find anything. Ocean, shark, done. I guess it saves them a lot of work.

  Though I’m more queasy than hungry, I need to get something to eat and probably take a shower, so I head for my car. I connect the phone to its charger, noting that I’ve gotten eight missed calls in the last hour from an unknown number. Probably another reporter. I’m not really in the right headspace to give yet another interview, but when the phone rings again, I answer. I owe it to Mina.

 
; “Mr. Zarabian? Is this Alexander Zarabian?”

  “Yeah. Who’s calling?”

  She clears her throat. “My name is Hannah, Mr. Zarabian.” She’s quiet for so long that I have time to wonder if the call dropped. Then she says, “I work for Granite Square. And I just saw a report that Mina Richards is missing.”

  Granite Square is Mina’s publisher, but her editor’s name is Lauren, not Hannah. “Is this about one of her books? If she’s got a deadline or something, that’s going to have to—”

  “No, that’s…not why I’m calling. Can we meet?”

  “I’m a little busy at the moment. Try calling her agent.” There’s another call waiting, probably that CNN reporter who’s been trying to connect with me. “Look, I have to go.”

  “No!” She sounds almost panicked and also young, right out of Wellesley or something. “No, please. I need to meet with you. In person. As soon as possible.”

  “Aren’t you in New York?”

  “I can come up on the train.”

  “You’re gonna need to tell me why, Hannah. I’ve got a lot going on, and I seriously have no time or patience for bullshit.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says quietly. Her voice is shaking. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

  Now I’m curious. As gently as I can, I say, “I’m listening.”

  “Okay.” She lets out a deep breath. “I think I might have information about what’s happened to Mina.”

  Chapter Six

  She snapped back into awareness, looking back and forth between the doctor and a woman in scrubs at the foot of her bed.

  “—to see you,” the woman, probably a nurse, said. She was looking right at Maggie, eyebrows raised.

  “What?”

  Dr. Mehta moved toward the doorway. “We’re transferring you up to the room now,” he told Maggie. “Your mother will be able to come up to visit.”

  The sudden collision of what he’d just said and the news he’d dropped on her sent a shock through her body. “Does she know? Did you tell her?”

  The sharpness of her demand led his eyes back to hers. “This is your news to tell,” he said gently. “And it’s your body. You have choices, and we won’t make them for you. But I’ve notified our on-call psychiatrist that you may need some support tonight, all right?”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “Of course you’re not,” the nurse said. Her name tag said her name was Jamie. “You’ve been through a lot, though.”

  “But I’m fine,” said Maggie, even as her breath came fast and uneven. Even as hot tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.

  Dr. Mehta and Jamie gave each other a look, one that made Maggie cover her face with her hands. She heard the door to the room open and a clanking sound that shook the bed. Next, she was rolling, and the noises of the hospital grew louder, snatches of conversation, beeping monitors, metal rattling on metal, raising images of bloody instruments on trays. She felt laid open, her organs exposed, and she rolled onto her side and drew her knees up to her chest. It hurt. Every muscle and limb seemed scraped or bruised, and suddenly, every breath and movement stung and ached. They’d told her she didn’t have any broken bones, but it felt like every single one was webbed with little cracks. Ready to shatter.

  Behind her, Jamie murmured soft, supportive things. Sounds that didn’t translate fully, because Maggie’s heartbeat was too loud. Then a hand stroked over her head. “Your mother’s here,” the nurse said. “Are you ready to see her? Do you want me to stay?”

  “I’m fine,” Maggie mumbled against her palms. “I’m fine.”

  She peeked through her fingers at the sound of whispered conversation. Jamie was in the doorway—they were in a different room now, the door on a different side, the hallway outside a pale blue instead of creamy white—and she was talking to Maggie’s mother. Ivy Wallace-Gainer nearly blocked out the light. Her blond, highlighted hair was styled in soft waves around her face. She wore a shimmery green shawl over her broad, sloped shoulders and was holding the fabric closed over her décolletage. She looked like she’d come from a social occasion. She probably had.

  She was frowning, and the sight made Maggie’s stomach pulse with nausea. Of course, that was the moment her mother noticed her looking. Her face transformed, caught between grimace and smile, tears and choked laughter, but all glowing with perfect concern and perfect highlighting along her cheekbones and brow. “Oh, my baby,” she said, words tumbling over each other as she threw out her arms and rushed to Maggie’s bedside, and then it was the overpowering scent of jasmine and orange and cedar, the smothering warmth of her soft but strong body, and the scratch of the sequins dotting her shawl.

  Maggie squirmed as her mother enveloped her, as her ample arm slid beneath Maggie’s shoulders and pulled her up to be pressed against that neck, the epicenter of the scent. She turned her head and breathed through her mouth. It wouldn’t be good if she threw up.

  Her mother released her. “She’s too weak to even hug me back,” she said to Jamie, who watched them from the doorway. “What did you give her? A sedative?”

  Jamie glanced over at Maggie. She looked conflicted, and Maggie remembered what Dr. Mehta had said about all this being her story to tell.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Maggie said quietly.

  Her mother turned back to her and took her hand. She patted it. Ivy’s fingernails were short but immaculate ovals, painted a tasteful, shimmery summer pink. “My poor lamb,” she said, her voice tight. “You’ve been through so much. But I’m here now.” She nodded toward Jamie. “Thank you for taking such good care of her. I want to speak with the attending as soon as possible about when I can take her home.”

  “I’ll let Dr. Atkinson know.” Jamie looked eager to escape the room. Her fingers were wrapped over the door handle.

  “You’re an angel,” Ivy said to her. “I’m so thankful for you.”

  Jamie disappeared, leaving Maggie to heft the weight of her mother’s complete attention. The face that swung back toward hers was no longer wreathed in a beatific smile. Lines bracketed her mother’s mouth. “Where have you been?” The sharp whisper knifed into Maggie’s ears, raising echoes of overlong church services and a firm hand clamped over her skinny thigh in warning.

  Good girls are quiet girls.

  Maggie flinched. “I don’t remember.”

  Ivy shook her head. She pulled a chair over to the bed. Its feet shrieked and moaned along the floor, and Maggie almost looked to see if they had drawn blood from the linoleum. Maggie let out a breath as her mother sank into the chair. Her face was close, but at least she wasn’t leaning over Maggie anymore.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through the last few months?” Ivy asked, pulling a lacy handkerchief from her purse. She carefully dabbed at her eyes. The fabric came away flecked with mascara. “When you didn’t arrive, I called the university and then the police. They found your car in a lot at Wachusett Mountain.”

  Wachusett. About an hour from the university and in the opposite direction of where she’d intended to go, north instead of south…happiness instead of dread. Cold wind and fluffy snow. Pure joy. Her feet dangling, skis clacking together, as the lift carried them upward, lights twinkling over a blanket of pristine white. Her hand enveloped in her father’s warm grip.

  “Your phone and keys and wallet were all inside the car,” her mother continued, jarring Maggie out of the memory. “We thought you might have been kidnapped, but then I spoke with your roommate, and she told me what you said. About not wanting to come home.”

  “I never said that!”

  “I just knew,” Ivy said. “I knew you’d run away, and probably with some man. Sure enough, I was right.”

  “I had every intention of coming home for the summer! I don’t know what happened.” And now she was pregnant. Jesus Christ. At the thought, she tensed for a
moment. It had been years, but she still felt the automatic kick of guilt at taking the Lord’s name in vain, internalized and bone deep. “Did they tell you about the guy in the parking lot? How he was chasing me?”

  “The Wellfleet police let him go. He said you’d been living with him.”

  “No. That… I don’t know who he is.” She remembered the guy they’d been holding down in the parking lot. Olive skin and dark hair. “I’d never seen him before in my life.”

  “Lying is a sin,” her mother said quietly. “You’re not just hurting me, and you’re not just dishonoring your poor father. You’re breaking your savior’s heart.”

  Maggie looked out the window, wishing she could beam herself right through it, into the open air, over miles and miles until she was far from this place. “I’m not lying. I don’t remember. And I don’t know why.”

  “I heard them mention a psychiatrist.” Ivy spat it out like a dirty word. “What on earth did you tell them?”

  “Mom—”

  “Because you don’t have to lie, and you don’t have to pretend.” Her hands shook as she dabbed at her eyes again. “Haven’t I always told you that forgiveness is a gift? Just tell the truth, and it’s yours. We can pretend this never happened.”

  Maggie pressed her lips together.

  “Whatever you’ve done and wherever you’ve been, whatever you’ve gotten into and whomever you’ve been with, I’ll forgive you. We all will. Haven’t we always, even when you were at your absolute worst? Claiming you don’t remember only draws more attention to all this.”

  Maggie jerked her hand away from the bed rail as her mother reached for it.

  Ivy’s eyes narrowed. “You want attention,” she snarled. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Some sick little revenge? Haven’t you punished me enough?”